


nothing set in stone

by arcadianwriter (noxstories)



Category: IT (2017), IT (2019), IT - Stephen King, IT Chapter 2, IT Chapter Two - Fandom
Genre: Blood, Canon Universe, Childhood Trauma, Choose Your Own Adventure, Choose Your Own Ending, F/M, Gore, Horror, M/M, Self Harm, Spoilers for both movies, Suicide, check notes for triggers in specific chapters, lol why can’t I tag, potential happy ending, somewhat canon compliant, there will be warnings at start of note in every chapter lol, typical pennywise warnings, yes there is more reddie bc why not
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-09-20
Updated: 2019-09-24
Packaged: 2020-10-24 21:48:26
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 10
Words: 12,623
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20713067
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/noxstories/pseuds/arcadianwriter
Summary: “Do you think we’ll still be friends the next time It comes?” Stan asks, so small and timid now. Beverly pictures his body as she’d seen it in the deadlights, bloodied and crumpled like paper in the bathtub.So many futures had been shown to her. Stanley’s death, their fight with It, their deaths, their victories... They can’t all happen — she’s not stupid. And yet they had, in that moment, in the deadlights. Branches and paths they could in the future head down... and only a few that lead to It being killed for good. Her mouth is dry.She’s going to forget all this. She knows she will. But there is one thing she knows for certain, and all her Losers seem to know it too.“Of course,” Bill answers Stan’s question with confidence he hadn’t had before today. “How could we not be?”The branching futures haunt Bev for years until she moves from Derry and forgets. They all do. But these futures are still possible.All of them.—In which It Chapter 2 happens, but there’s perspectives for each character, multiple different endings and way more reddie.





	1. THE BEGINNING

**Author's Note:**

> Welcome!! This will be short and sweet. First chapters for each character will be up later tonight when I’ve finished writing them! I’ve almost finished planning everyone’s routes, and I’m excited for this to happen!!
> 
> Basically, for anyone who doesn’t know how this works, you pick a character, and you follow the bold instructions at the end of the chapter like “IF BILL SHOULD RETURN TO DERRY, GO TO CHAPTER EIGHT” depending on your choices. Read the notes at the beginning for trigger warnings. Some chapters will have gore, murder etc.
> 
> This isn’t really a chapter, more of an introduction, also. Real chapters will be posted tonight.
> 
> I hope you enjoy! Criticism is always welcome!!

[The Losers defeated It twenty seven years ago.]

[It has come back for them with a vengeance.]

[Its need for revenge and hunger for children is insatiable.]

[The Losers must cone home.]

[The Losers must come home.]

**[The Losers must come home.]**

[You must reunite the Losers, for better or worse.]

_ CHOOSE YOUR LOSER: _

• Bill Denbrough

• Beverly Marsh

• Richie Tozier

• Eddie Kaspbrak 

• Stanley Uris

• Mike Hanlon

• Ben Hanscom

**If you chose Bill, go to ch2 [not posted].**

**If you chose Eddie, go to ch3 [not posted].**

**If you chose Mike, go to ch4 [not posted].**

**If you chose Ben, go to ch5 [not posted].**

**If you chose Richie, go to ch6 [not posted]. **

**If you chose Beverly, go to ch7 [not posted.]**

**If you chose Stanley, go to ch8 [not posted.]**


	2. BILL: 1

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> in which bill can’t write endings, and gets a call from an old friend he can’t remember.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> tw: none?? mentions of the first IT movie as a story bill wrote,, amnesia mentions

It had been twenty seven years since Bill Denbrough had last felt so full of stress, and that had been because he’d failed a math paper so badly his parents had grounded him for a week. The first week of that summer he’d spent indoors, his friends playing happily with each other while he’d gloomily stared at the wall waiting for his imprisonment to end. It had eventually, of course, and he’d spent the rest of the summer quite content with his friends, but he always remembered the feeling of dread he’d had when handing over his grade to his parents.

This was by far worse.

“I don’t know, Bill,” his wife said, in a round about way that Bill instantly knew meant that she knew very well, and was just trying to be tactful about it. “It just seems... The ending... I don’t know.”

“You never complained about my endings before,” Bill told her, indignation lacing his voice and hiding the hurt. He was stung, but he knew himself it was because she was right. His endings had never been... the best. Always too vague, too much of a cliffhanger without another book or movie to justify it. His recent script had been of teenagers fighting an alien from space with friendship (it was better than he described it, even if he did say so himself), but the ending was that they promised to come back to fight the alien if it returned.

And then it _ended_.

It wasn’t until he was gazing at his wife in the movie studio that he realised how empty it was. He didn’t even know what happened after. Fans hated the ending, producers hated the ending, so much so that for the movie, he’d been told to rewrite the ending to improve sales. He’d jumped at the opportunity, but he’d had months, and he’d done nothing to the ending but change some irrelevant lines. At the time, he’d justified it by telling himself that the ending was fine, that it didn’t need fixed. Just because it was fuzzy and vague and abrupt didn’t mean it wasn’t good. Now, however, standing in front of his visibly disappointed wife, Bill felt nothing but guilt and regret. Why hadn’t he just changed the damn thing?

“I was trying to be nicer.” Her words cut, but Bill knew he deserved this. “I mean, come on, honey! They gave you extra time, what’s happened? You said you needed until this weekend, and—“

She saw his shoulders slump, dejected, and instantly paused. She wasn’t malicious after all: his wife was wonderful and kind and talented and one hundred percent truthful in that moment.

Both stood there for a moment, and Bill felt an odd sliver of knowing run through him. Something was going to happen.

_Something was going to happen._

“Forget it—“

“Listen, I’ll get it—“

Both husband and wife were cut off by the shrill ringing of Bill’s phone. Snapped out of their awkward and tense conversation, they gazed at his pocket for a beat, then two, as if they could sense this was no ordinary phone-call. Then the moment passed, and Bill turned away with an apologetic gesture, answering his cell with monotonous ease.

”Hello, this is William Denbrough speaking—"

“Bill?”

The familiarity stopped Bill dead. He knew that voice. It circled his head at night, haunting his nightmares and calming his dreams. This was somebody close to him. Their name was on the top of his tongue...

“Who is this?” He asked, instead, half surprised with the flickering fear in his heart. God, why were his hands so damp all of a sudden? Why did he feel nauseous?

The voice on the phone answered quickly. It sounded tired, weary, but urgent. Bill felt that urgency in something years old inside him: twenty seven years old. “It’s Mike. Mike Hanlon, from Derry. We need to talk.”

_Mike_. Of course! Bill remembered now. One of his best friends from Derry as a child, along with _BevBenRichieEddieStan_ too. Their time together blurred, as did the names and faces of his childhood associates, but he recalled the Losers Club. How could he forget? The club he’d created with his friends as kids, the club that had been his pride and joy, the club his little brother had wanted to join—

Except he didn’t have a brother, certainly not a little one, and thinking of having one hurt his head. Bill frowned. _Who was he thinking of?_

“Bill?” Mike’s voice reminded him where he was. All of a sudden it felt too crowded and exposed in a movie studio, with actors and producers and directors and people other than him and Mike. Stepping closer to the door and letting out a breath at the fresh breeze that ghosted over his skin, Bill forced a smile into his tone.

”Mike, of course!” He replied brightly, though his stomach was in knots for reasons unknown to him. “How’ve you been, man, it’s been years! It’s been...”

“Twenty seven years,” Mike interrupted. He sounded grave. “Bill, it’s been twenty seven years.”

Twenty seven years... Why did that mean something to him?

“We made a promise.” Mike wasn’t waiting for his replies now. Bill’s mouth was too dry to speak anyway. It was for the best. If he opened his mouth, he didn’t know whether laughter or tears would come out. “We swore an oath that if It ever came back, we would too. That’s why I called.”

Bill could practically hear the capitalisation of the word _It_ in his head. He remembered that word. **_It_**. He remembered how he used to feel about the word — terrified, guilty, furious, all sorts of negative emotions. “Wh—What do y-you mean?” His _stutter_. His stutter was back. Bill clapped a hand over his mouth to shut himself up at the sound of it. Why had that come back all of a sudden?! He hadn’t had a stutter in.... twenty seven years...

No.

”Bill...” Mike sounded truly regretful, his words heavy. Bill wondered if he’d ever left Derry. It didn’t sound like he had. “I’m sorry. It wants us to come home. All of us. It’s back.”

Bill’s eyes widened, the phone almost slipping from numb hands. He stared dead ahead, and the sound of the actors laughing a few feet away felt like they were taunting him. Mike and he exchanged a few more words — about what time he’d be in Derry, and when — but he hardly paid them any attention.

After a few minutes, he hung up and shoved the phone in his pocket, heart hammering in his chest. This couldn’t be happening. He couldn’t believe it. All this time running from Derry, from being a loser, from his stutter, from Georgie (why was that name so familiar?!), and he’d be going back.

Or would he? Mike was practically a stranger to him now. Sure, Bill had been best friends with him for years, but goddamnit, he didn’t want to go back to Derry. He’d gotten away from it all. They all had, but Mike, it seemed. They’d all escaped, _he’d_ escaped, so why the hell would he return? He had successful books and a soon to be successful movie (hopefully), he had a wife, and he had an ending to write. So why should he drop everything to return to his childhood town?

What should he do? Bill’s head ached sharply as he strained to remember what he could about Derry, but not much came back to him. He could almost picture Mike’s face in his head, but something kept the face from being clear: instead it was blurry and unfocused. Why couldn’t he remember so much from his childhood? It was frustrating as it was rather alarming: even his old therapist had been perplexed with his inability to recall simple facts about his hometown.

Maybe he should return: maybe it would give him memories back. And if Mike had called him, maybe the others would be going. It would be nice for a catch-up, after all. The gentle breeze turned harsh and howling, and Bill stepped away from it with a frown. He had to make up his mind now. To leave, or not to leave? Should he take a weekend away from filming and meet up with the gang again? Or should he take a drive down himself tomorrow, have a look around, and then drive back to writing? Which would be better?

**To go straight to Derry to meet friends, go to ch9 [not posted].**

**To go to Derry alone tomorrow, go to ch10 [not posted].**

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> lol that’s the last time I wrote bill's stutter Sdghjgds
> 
> in any case, first chapter!! it’s short, but the introductory ones will be, and they’ll hopefully get longer as chapters go by and more action happens. Eddie, Richie and Mike’s paths will be posted tomorrow!!
> 
> I hope you enjoyed!! If you did, feel free to leave kudos and a comment! Which character’s path will you choose first? What would you like to see in this fic? Are there any endings you think of you think should be available?


	3. EDDIE: 1

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> in which Eddie forgets someone important, gets a call and crashes his car.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> tw: mentions of unhappy marriage, repressed feelings, amnesia, and a car accident. in character swearing.

Eddie had hated driving ever since he’d first got his license, almost twenty years ago. He was probably one of the safest drivers out there — never texting and driving, driving with his seatbelt on at all times, and focusing solely on driving without any other distractions — but that didn’t ease his (and his wife’s) fears of crashing and getting injured.

That being said, however, he didn’t have much of a chance not to drive today: work was too far away for him to walk there, and would also be less safe. If he was rushing whilst walking, during rush hours, lord knew he was statistically more likely to get hurt. He’d read the newspaper articles his wife had cut out for him and stuck up on their bedroom door, with fear in his head and annoyance in his heart, and had made his promises, both to her and himself.

Gritting his teeth as yet another car cut in front of him — that had so many health hazards!! Hadn’t any of these assholes taken any safety classes regarding driving?! — Eddie found himself reminiscing on his life so far. His fun-filled hazy childhood had been dampened considerably by his overbearing mother, and that had only switched from his mother to his wife as he’d grown older and moved away from Derry. Both women were obsessed with his health and safety, as was he, but sometimes he found himself longing for That Summer as a child, with his best childhood friends (what were their names...? _BillBevBenMikeStanRichie**Ritchie**_), when he’d been so free, when he’d fought off his mother and her lies about his medication, when he’d been dirty and bloodied and so incredibly proud of himself and his friends—

— Except he’d never been dirty and bloodied. Not in his memory. What was he thinking of?

In any case, while he enjoyed his job as a risk assessor, there was something _childish_ in him that longed for his teenage years again, to run around town with his _BillBevBenMikeStan_ **_hisRitchie_** again. He understood that was pathetic though. What kind of man yearned to return to thirteen again, twenty seven years later? A poor excuse for one, surely. He had a wife who loved him, and a well paying job he liked. He should be grateful.

Shaking off his thoughts irritably, Eddie jumped as the phone rang. God. How was he supposed to answer the phone while driving?! Purposely waiting until he was forced to stop at a traffic jam, he put the call on speaker, heart racing for reasons he couldn’t explain. In fear? Anticipation? Something else?

“Hello?” His voice almost cracked at the end of the word, much to his surprise. Why was he acting like this? “Who is this?”

“Eddie-bear, it’s me!”

Oh. His fear died sharply, replaced by a wary sort of nervousness. It was just his wife. Myra Kaspbrak. The bane of his existence, but the love of his life (_no, that title belonged to a boy and he in a hammock, listening to music with the boy, flicking off the boy’s glasses so he couldn’t see him stare giddily at him_), of course.

“Myra, hi,” he said, tense from the memory of the Boy, but pushing them back from his head. He didn’t need to think about the Boy, who he dreamed about at night but whose face was too blurry to recall with the clarity he used to. “I’m driving, honey, can’t I call you ba—”

He exchanged a few tired words with Myra, eyes fixed on the never ending road ahead of him. Just another day in the life, he told himself wearily, getting ready to hang up, until his phone rang again and showed another call:

_UNKNOWN_.

His car swerved with numb hands on the wheel, and he swore aloud. Suddenly he was thirteen again, with a broken arm (_LOVERnotLOSER_, _clubhouse Quarry arcade Richie Richie **Richie**_**) **and a stifling mother staring at him in worry.

Realising he was shaking, Eddie interrupted her on the phone. “Mommy, I got to go.” He said, and his voice trembled. “Call you back.”

”_Mommy_?!“

Beep.

Eddie didn’t realise his mistake until he’d hung up and had pressed to answer the unknown call. By that point, it was too late to take it back. Wincing at his stupidity, he answered hesitantly.

”Hello?” He could almost hear his voice echoing down the line. “Edward Kaspbrak here, Risk Assessor of—“

“Eddie? It’s Mike.”

Mike. It all rushed back suddenly. Not all of it. Faces were blurry, but names, distinct memories (_how could he forget_?!) flooded back as if the dam holding them from him had burst. The Losers. His Losers. His Richie— no, not his.

“Mike, of course!” Eddie said, deceptively cheery, even as his heart dropped to his stomach and he began to feel sick. “It’s been a while—“

“Twenty seven years,” Mike told him, and the scar on the palm of his right hand ached sharply in reminder.

_”Promise we’ll all come back,” Bill had said twenty seven years ago, and Eddie had promised him, all of them, himself.”_

“Twenty seven...” He couldn’t finish his sentence.

Mike sounded sorry he even had to break the news to him, but before he spoke, Eddie could already predict his words.

“We all swore we’d come back to kill It—“ why did that fill him with dread?

“— and Eddie... I’m sorry. It’s back. You have to come home.”

Home. His hands on the wheel slipped. There was a flicker of lights, time for Eddie to react, but he just sat frozen in place as memories of some great fear came back to him. No. No no no no—

He clenched his eyes shut, and felt himself fly forward at impact with another car, stopped only by his seatbelt digging painfully into his shoulder. Luckily he hadn’t been going too fast, and so instead of severe injury, he felt a mild hysteria slip over him. The urge to laugh rose inside, but he clenched it down. Opening his eyes brought the sight of a woman in front of him in the car get out and yell angrily at him, but Eddie could barely react.

“Eds?” Mike’s voice on the phone yanked him back from his panic. “You okay?”

“I’m good,” Eddie told him, but he most decidedly was not. “I just, uh.... come home?”

”You promised, remember?” Mike told him, and yes, Eddie did remember. How could he ever have forgotten? But what was _It_ that he was forgetting? Why did that Summer fill him with such fear and dread?

”I’ll be there.” The words left his mouth before he could stop them, and Eddie regretted them as soon as he spoke. “Where?”

“The old Chinese restaurant is still there,” said Mike. Eddie recalled that one. They’d always wanted to go there, when they saved up enough money for it. They never had before they’d all split up. But this was different. The Losers were all grown up now. _Eddie_ was all grown up now. But why did he feel so childish and small just then?

”We could go there. God knows Ben and Bill and Richie make enough to afford it, but we can all chip in—“

_Richie_. Eddie stopped paying attention to Mike as soon as the name was mentioned, even as he sat there unmoving in his crashed car at the side of the road. _Richie_. Because a face was returning to him, round and freckled and starry eyed behind glasses, along with a fondness that ran far deeper than he ever recalled feeling about Myra or anybody else in his life. _Richie_.

“He’ll be there?” Eddie’s voice was soft and hesitant, and he wondered if Mike or any of the other Losers had noticed his affection for Richie in particular. He hadn’t clarified which ‘_he_’ that he meant, but it seemed he didn’t need to.

”Yes, Eddie,” Mike told him, and there was knowing in his voice, and a little sorrow too. “He’ll be there. I’m phoning him next.”

Eddie stifled the bizarre urge to laugh, or maybe it was a sob, at the thought of Richie being phoned next. Were they always a pair in the minds of the other Losers? Were they ever just ‘_Eddie_’ and ‘_Richie_’, or forever destined to be ‘_EddieandRichie_’? Which did he prefer?

”I’ll be there,” Eddie said again, and this time he meant it. There was no choice there. He’d be nothing if not for the Losers, if not for _Richie_, and so how could he choose to stay behind while they all met up? “What time?”

He and Mike exchanged a few more words that Eddie payed little attention to, until he glanced out his window and saw a cop coming up, looking decidedly unhappy at his crash. Shit.

“Gotta go, Mike, I’ll see you tomorrow,” Eddie told him hastily, and hung up, rolling down his window to face the consequences of the crash. For once, he didn’t feel afraid of the crash, or of the problems it would cause. There was something far worse for him where he was going.

Eddie Kaspbrak was going back to Derry.

** Continued in ch11 [not posted.]**

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Here’s the schedule of when chapters will be posted!! These first eight don’t count because they’re intros, but starting from this Monday this is how it will go!!
> 
> — BILL: Mondays  
— MIKE: Tuesdays  
— EDDIE: Wednesdays  
— BEN: Thursdays  
— RICHIE: Fridays  
— BEV: Saturdays  
— STANLEY: Sundays
> 
> hope you enjoy!! feel free to leave kudos or a comment if you do!
> 
> Richie and mike’s chapters coming soon!!


	4. MIKE: 1

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> in which mike waits, and waits, and finally is forced to make a choice.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> tw: mentions of death, brief homophobia (blink and you’ll miss it, from Derry citizens), and loneliness. and a bloody message.

Mike Hanlon was forty, but he hadn’t ever stopped feeling like a scared little kid in Derry: the town that had become his prison.

He’d wanted to leave, of course. After knowing what monstrosities lurked below the sewers, after realising he’d never be able to forget any of it, he wanted to move away. By that point, they’d realised something odd about the town, after Stan had been away on vacation and come back tripping over the event and their names. Derry was _wrong_. It made people forget things they shouldn’t. But Mike didn’t want to remember It. He didn’t want to remember what they’d been through. But he did want to remember his friends, the Losers Club, that had become his family.

So he stayed. One of them had to. Who was he to go against the wills of his friends? Richie had moved out when he’d got a contract opening a show for a famous comedian at seventeen, and he’d left, eager eyed and bright for his future. Eddie had soon followed: he hadn’t cited anywhere specific he would go, but Mike and the rest of them had known he would go. He would follow Richie anywhere, just as Richie would him. There was something special about their bond, after all.

One by one, all the Losers had left. All but him. Mike hadn’t minded at first. They’d exchanged phone numbers, hugged, promised to keep in touch. And he’d waited eager for them for a month to call, message, anything. Something. But that month turned into six, and six months to a year, to five, and then when Mike tried the numbers, they all belonged to someone else or nobody at all.

Sometimes Mike felt like that. Somebody else, or nobody at all. Mostly nobody. He felt as if he’d been taken over by _nothing_, as if the only thing puppeteering his body was the sheer desperation to keep the oath, should It come back. By that point, he knew the rest of the Losers had forgotten about each other. Or maybe not each other, but the main important things. He knew they’d forgotten It, forgotten the Barrens, forgotten the oath they made. He wished he could. But he didn’t think he’d survive outside of Derry now. This was where he worked. Lived. Existed. Everything.

It had been twenty seven years since then, that fateful summer where they’d defeated It temporarily. Mike had been all over, digging for information about it, searching for survivors of its attacks (apart from them, there was none), trying to keep children away from grates in the roads and dark woods by themselves in a paranoid fear it would come back and devour them before his very eyes.

Twenty seven years, and all he’d found was a ritual where everyone involved had died. It had worked like a charm. But the consequences were too high. How could Mike ask his friends who had forgotten him, forgotten each other, forgotten It, to give up their lives for a ritual like this? He would do it in a heartbeat. It wasn’t as if he had anything to live for. He’d devoted his entire life to killing It after all. But Bill, with his novels and scripts? Richie, with his comedian show? The rest of them, with whatever they were doing now? No. It was better to keep looking for something better. Something guaranteed to let them live.

Twenty seven years, and like clockwork, It attacked again.

A man with asthma. A man who people around town had whispered about and stared at openly and called a loser. It was almost as if It was taunting him.

Mike couldn’t bring himself to speak to the man’s boyfriend. Couldn’t bring himself to look at the despair in the other man’s eyes, couldn’t bring himself to even associate the crime with It, until the man spoke.

“...it was a clown, I-I know it sounds unbelievable...”

His heart plummeted. **_No_**. No no no....

A red balloon floated by him as if cued, and Mike fought an urge to throw up. It was here. Pennywise, as It called itself. It was back. It was starting, it was starting. He turned away from the distraught man, who was sick and pale with grief, and instead found himself facing a large sign instead. A sign that looked as if it had been painted in blood.

No.

** _ COME HOME. _ **

A warm, stinking breath of sewage slid by his ear, and it sounded like it was laughing at him. Twenty seven years, forty years old, and one day had him reduced to thirteen again. He felt like he had that day with Henry Bowers holding the gun to his head: trapped. Scared. _Desperate_.

Desperate enough that he stumbled home to the attic of the Derry town library, and dialled the Loser’ new numbers with shaky hands, ones he’d found months ago, but never thought he’d seriously have to use. Until now.

His fingers hovered over the phone. Could he do this? The ritual would fail on them, would kill them horribly. He’d heard about how Pennywise had killed the others all those years ago, as they’d trapped It, in gory detail. Could he really bring his friends here to have them killed too?

They had families now, most of them. Husbands and wives and jobs and lives outside of Derry. If he left them be, if he himself just left Derry.... He could forget all about the clown. He could live out the rest of his life without fear or guilt or trauma-filled memories. Or he could not bring his friends here at all, and instead try to kill Pennywise himself. He’d just be another death, after all. Just one more dead in the town of Derry, and the curse would be lifted. His Losers would hear his name in the news and feel a flicker of sadness, of reminiscence... and then they’d forget.

He’d like to forget.

But he had an oath. They all did. They’d all made it, twenty seven years ago, that they would come back and stop Pennywise’s tricks for good. They were adults now, but their promise was eternal. He had to phone them. He had to.

Why was this previously easy decision so hard now? Rubbing his head in frustration, Mike weighed the two choices he had: phone his friends, or put the phone down. He had to do this tonight. What choice should he make? His friends, or the lives of Derry? The Losers, or Derry?

**If you think Mike should phone, go to ch12 [not posted].** **  
If you think Mike shouldn’t phone, go to ch13 [not posted]. **

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So there’s Mike’s chapter!! I feel like he’s massively underrated, so I’m excited for his journey, especially because he’s the one that calls the Losers back together. Ben and Richie’s will be coming today, and then I’ll save Bev and Stan’s for tomorrow. Stan’s will be interesting, because there’ll be an option for him not to die (because I love him so much).
> 
> Anyway, I hope you enjoy! Leave kudos and a comment — if there’s anything you wanna see, any ships or something, let me know!! Reddie is the only unchanging ship because I love it, lol. Benverly is probably unchanging too, but we’ll see!


	5. BEN: 1

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> in which ben remembers his loneliness, an old crush, and makes a decision.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> tw; loneliness, Henry Bowers mentions, scars (not self inflicted), anorexia mentioned (unnamed), mentions of fat shaming

Ben Hanscom had always been a lonely child. From his childhood, ages seven and eight, where he’d read and studied and pretend there was no tears falling down his face when his classmates ran outside playing without inviting him, to when he was an adult, now, a successful architect but very much friendless. There had been a period, of course, when he’d had friends. Twenty seven years ago, he’d made the best friends he could have ever asked for. Their faces and names blurred in his head when he tried to remember them (old age, he thought, he was forty now), but their smiles gleamed bright and their eyes were youthful and happy. The Losers Club. The Losers. _Bev_.

Old age and loneliness hadn’t wiped away his memories of Beverly Marsh. With her soft hair and gentle eyes and kind smile (my heart burns there too) and the poem he’d wrote to her but been too terrified to admit was him. Whenever he felt like he was forgetting too much, whenever he felt himself struggle to remember what her smile or eyes looked like, he always recited the poem to himself, desperately, like the prayer of a dying man.

_Your hair is winter fire_

_January embers_

_ **My heart burns there too.** _

Twenty seven years later, it didn’t sound as poetic as it had back then, but it still made Ben smile softly, and think fondly of the girl that had brightened his childhood so. It had become like his lifeline through the past two decades especially. There had been a point not long after he’d left Derry when he’d become stuck in a game of calorie limbo — how low could he go? — until he’d stopped eating entirely, desperate to lose the weight he’d been bullied due to for almost a decade. It hadn’t worked, and he’d only ended up in hospital, sick and dizzy and weak and back on a regular eating diet... But his determination to lose weight and escape the frightened boy he’d once been had eventually come through, and he’d shed pounds with a healthy meal plan, healthy exercise plan, and a dedication to both. It had taken a few years, and frantic mouthing of his poem, but he was proud of how he looked now. He hadn’t minded being fat, either — but the bullying he’d gotten for it, the shame he’d grown to associate with being overweight, had made him want to drop the weight quickly. 

Henry Bowers had been a reason too. Although he’d moved from Derry long ago, he still bore the faint white scars on his stomach that the older boy had carved there. Remembering them never failed to make him feel thirteen again and scared, like he wanted to hide under the sheets of his bed until the sun went down. But Bowers was long gone, long dead. Ben was safe. He was _safe_.

And _lonely_. There had been plenty of women - and men - who had grown interested in him as he’d worked his way up the architecture ladder, modelling building after building, but he’d been interested in none of them back. He felt like he couldn’t. Whenever he told himself he had to start moving on with his life and falling in love with someone — anyone — the poem and her smile and eyes always haunted him.

_My heart burns there too._

Ben missed Beverly, a lot. How could he not? She’d been his everything, her and the rest of the Losers. He missed the unity and bond they provided, missed feeling like he was part of something. Even on the FaceTime call to his coworkers and employees now, Ben still felt as if he was just on the outside looking in through a window. Like he was alone again. He had a lovely house, job, life. Everything was perfect — except from the fact he was lonely.

Ben Hanscom was incredibly, terribly, unbearably lonely, and he didn’t know how to fix that.

He’d often pondered on returning to Derry, but he didn’t think he ever would. Every time he thought about it, a little fearful voice shook its head in the back of his mind and told him it wasn’t the right time. Ben wasn’t sure when the _right time _was, but he did know he was tired of waiting for it.

“I’d install more windows,” he told the employees with a frown, intently studying the board they were showing with a building. “It looks a little like a prison. We don’t want people buying to feel trapped.”

There weren’t enough windows in his house. Well, there were plenty, but he still felt trapped. He remembered Beverly talking about being trapped in her house.

_“It’s like some sort of prison,” she’d whispered to him one night, her eyes glistening with tears. “It’s supposed to be a home, but it’s just a prison that I’m trapped in. And I can’t escape.”_

“More windows,” Ben found himself saying aloud again, his mouth dry at the memory. “I’ll call you back.”

He hung up, and pressed the palms of his hands over his eyes for a moment. God. Beverly. He missed her. He missed all of them. What wouldn’t he give to—

His phone went, and Ben jumped. Hadn’t he told his employees he’d call them back later? Picking it up with a deep sigh, his heart rose into his mouth at the sight of the unknown number. 

Beverly, was his first thought. His second was more rational. Maybe it was an employee whose number he didn’t have. Or maybe it was a prank call, or something similar. The odds of it being his childhood best friend and crush were little to none. Still, that logic and reasoning didn’t stop his heart from thudding faster in his chest as he answered. 

“Ben?” It was a male’s voice, one he didn’t recognise. “It’s Mike. From Derry.”

“Mike,” Ben replied, half disappointed, half incredulous. What were the odds one of his best friends from teenagehood would contact him today of all days, just when he’d started thinking about his past again. “It’s good to hear from you again, Mike.”

It was. As much as he thought about Beverly, the others had been his best friends too. They’d been there for him, through thick and thin, come rain or shine. He didn’t know where he would be without them, and so a smile came to his face. He hadn’t realised he’d missed them so much until just there.

“You too.” Mike’s voice was warm, but tired, and Ben wondered if the other man had gotten much sleep recently. It didn’t sound like it. “I wish this was just a social call, but it’s more. We... Ben, do you remember our oath? We swore it, twenty seven—“

“Twenty seven years ago,” Ben finished for him, and felt a prickle of something bad in his stomach. He thought it was fear, but he didn’t understand why. His hand, where only then did he remember the scar on his palm, tingled unpleasantly, and he winced. “To come back. I remember.”

Why had they made an oath to come back? For a reunion, for old time’s’ sake? Something told Ben it was more sinister than that. But if Mike was asking them to honour their oath... Ben wasn’t about to turn it down, especially if it meant spending time with his old friends. 

“Is tomorrow quick enough?” Ben asked, determination ringing in his words and drowning out the panic and worry that threatened to take over his tone.

“Perfect,” Mike said, and he sounded relieved. “We’re meeting at the old Chinese restaurant. You remember it, right?”

“I remember,” Ben replied. He’d planned to take Beverly there one day, if he ever became rich. But then she’d moved, and he’d moved... Times changed, he supposed. “See you there, Mike. Good to hear from you again.”

“Likewise. See you, Ben.”

_Click._

The phone started ringing again, but Ben paid it no mind. Instead, he stood up, feeling for the first time in a long time that he knew what he had to do. The names of his old friends were clearer in his mind than ever. Bill. Stan. Mike. Richie. Eddie. Bev. _Bev_... He wondered if she’d changed much. He didn’t feel mentally like he had at all. Something was starting, and he needed to be there for them again. With her.

Ben was going back to Derry and his Losers.

Continued on ch14 [not posted].

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Here’s Ben’s chapter!! Richie’s up soon.
> 
> None of these chapters are like exactly what happened in the movie because frankly I have no money to see it again. It will be mostly accurate, but as it’s all based off memory and what I can find on the internet, it won’t be 100% accurate. Please be patient as I’m trying my best with that!! :D
> 
> Anyway, hope you enjoy, please leave a kudos and a comment if you did!!


	6. RICHIE: 1

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> in which richie has a drink, tries to forget his sexuality, and remembers derry.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> tw; alcoholism, extreme internalised homophobia (poor baby :( ), swearing, mentions of self hatred and breakups.

Richie Tozier knew he was funny as fuck. So did everybody around him. That was why he became a comedian. It was either that or, as one of his old friends from childhood had once told him, he’d get beaten up for being a loudmouth. So comedian it was.

He’d done it for long enough to know that he was good at it. The ticket sales, the views on YouTube, the praise, it all meant he was. Even if he didn’t write his own jokes for fear of people thinking he wasn’t as funny as they do now. Even if there were times he came back from a show and drank himself to sleep to ease the memories of something from his childhood that haunted him far more than he’d ever tell anyone. Even if he steered clear of the humour he really found funny because he was scared any gay jokes would mean people would think he was... was...

Yeah, Richie was funny, granted, but sometimes his life wasn’t.

He’d left Derry age seventeen with promises of a brighter future ahead of him. He’d quickly followed up on that promise, with directors and agents lining up to sign him on to their company, and he’d chosen the least asshole-seeming employer he could, and then that was that. Years of turning down girlfriend after girlfriend had led him to start drinking, lightly at first, before interviews that would inevitably turn from comedy talk to dangerous chat about his romantic life (“You know there have been speculations you’re _homosexual_, Richie, what do you say to that?” “I...That’s bullshit.”), but it grew until he was drinking heavily after shows and before interviews and in between too. The pressure of show business meant he was forced to keep up a bright smile and a witty joke at every raised eyebrow at the growing number of self-deprecating comedy skits and bottles in his rooms, and laugh until suspicion turned away.

He’d forced himself to get a girlfriend at thirty. He’d thrown up the first time he’d had sex with her — not because she was ugly or mean or bad at sex, she was a sweetheart - but because he felt so awful that he couldn’t just be normal and love her like any other man would. What kind of man was he, if he couldn’t even love a woman that loved him back?

They’d broken up not even six months later. Something about Richie being emotionally unstable or unavailable or something, he didn’t know. He brushed it off, and made a point of mentioning it in his next show, changing the reason so that it was easier to laugh at. He succeeded. He got the laughs, and Richie knew how his new material would go down.

It became a habit — date for a few months, figure out the comical way of getting her to break up with him, make a show about it. It was easy after a while, though Richie felt sick at how cold he came off. People loved his shows more than ever, though, and nobody suspected his sexuality anymore. Men loved him because he was a player, and women loved him because he made it clear he was looking for their love. Friends loved him because he had a foul mouth, couples loved him because he proved to them how lucky they were to have each other, and Richie hated himself for all the above reasons.

Go figure.

Five minutes before the show. He paced nervously back and forth, butterflies pooling in his stomach and feeling unusually more nervous than usual. This show was just like the others — he’d recently gotten out of a relationship with another woman (Ashley? Ashlyn? Evelyn?) and it was time for him to joke about it. So why was he so stressed?

“Bottoms up, Rich, here’s to another show!” Grinned his manager, shoving a glass of amber liquid into his hand. Richie and his manager had a deal — Richie would perform and get the money for him, and his manager in turn would hide his bad habits away from the media without stopping him. Richie took the glass, taking a long drink from it with a wince as it burned his throat, but it helped somewhat. It helped a lot.

His phone rang, and Richie almost dropped his glass, swearing under his breath.

“Be back in a minute,” he muttered to his manager, who looked disapproving, but nodded curtly.

“Make it a minute, Tozier.”

Richie rolled his eyes, checking the time: twenty seven past six. His show started at half past. He flipped his phone to open the call, and held it to his ear, draining the last of the glass as he did so.

“Yeah?” He asked down the line.

“Richie? Richie Tozier?”

A flicker of irritation filled him. Two minutes until half past. He had to make this quick. “Do I know you?”

“It’s Mike. Mike Hanlon. From Derry.”

Who the fuck—

Then it hit him. Mike from Derry. Of course. Nausea coiled in Richie’s stomach like a serpent, and he barely refrained from throwing up. Derry and the Quarry and the Clubhouse and _BillBevBenMikeStanEddie_**_Eddie_** oh my god, how could he forget? Forget the boy with dimples in his cheeks and a gleam in his eyes and the broken arm that said LOVER and the way he made Richie’s heart flip every time he saw him? Derry also promised danger, unknown to his mind but too familiar to his body, fear and so much hatred directed at him in cruel fists and crueller words, _fagfagfagfag**fag**_—

He really did throw up then, over the side of the balcony, and for once was grateful all he’d consumed that day was one bowl of cereal hours ago and alcohol. His throat burned and his eyes stung, but he forced himself to wipe his mouth and answer a concerned sounding Mike on the phone.

“You okay?”

“I’m fine,” Richie lied blatantly, taking a breath and trying to plaster that same award-winning smile over his face. It felt faker than usual, and far more strained. “Ate something funny for lunch today.”

Mike didn’t sound as if he believed him, but Richie remembered how good Mike was at knowing when things were best left alone and staying quiet subsequently. He did so now, sighing heavily, before continuing.

“If you say so,” the other man said. “Richie, listen, I hate to call you, but we— we made an oath. Twenty seven years ago. We promised to come back if It ever did.”

Why could Richie hear ‘_it_’ capitalised? _It_ felt more like a person or entity than an object, which filled him with more dread. Why couldn’t he remember? Why couldn’t he remember that summer twenty seven years ago?

“We did.” He wasn’t entirely sure if he was confirming Mike’s words or questioning them, but the words stumbled out anyway. Despite of only having had one or two drinks that evening, he felt drunk on his own unknowing terror. “Yeah, the pact. Right. I...Listen_, _buddy, I’m really busy—”

“We’re meeting at the old Chinese restaurant tomorrow night. You’ll make it, right?” Mike interrupted him, ignoring his words completely. Richie was half glad at that: it meant the man didn’t hear his fear. “Everyone will be there. I just phoned Eddie, and—”

Eddie. Richie’s breath hitched. Eddie. Arcade Eddie, Quarry Eddie, Clubhouse Eddie, _his_ Eddie. He wanted to see him. How long had it been since he’d seen him last? God knew it had been hours since he’d last thought of him.

He needed a drink. A lot of them.

“I’ll be there.” He said, uncharacteristically quiet, and wishing the ground would open up and swallow him where he stood. “I promise.”

He broke promises all the time. What difference would this one be? Across the balcony, he swore he saw a guy in a clown mask. He closed his eyes, and when he opened them again, nobody was there. He fucking hated clowns.

He quickly hung up on Mike, uneasy and sick, wiping his mouth once more and running his free hand feverishly through his hair. He felt like shit, and probably looked it too — he could sense the panic and stress pouring from him like a waterfall, and he had a show in negative thirty seconds, and all he wanted to think about was his first fucking serious crush on a boy—

_Beep beep, Richie. Beep beep._

What to do? Should he go to Derry, go and visit and see his friends and Eddie? He would uncover more of his past, maybe finally get over his inability to hold a relationship with a woman for more than six months, and reunite with his old friends again. But on the other hand, his friends were the only fond memories Derry held for him. Why should he drop everything and return to a place he swore he never would go back to for the sake of a reunion? He could invite them all to his place some other time, surely. He didn’t want to go back to Derry. He didn’t.

So what was his decision?

**If you think Richie should return to Derry, go to ch15 [not posted].**

**  
If you think Richie should stay at home, go to ch16 [not posted].**

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Richie’s chapter!! Five down, two more to go!! This is sad, but don’t worry, I have a full arc for Rich and Eddie planned where they’re happy and sorting out their issues, so everything will be resolved if you play your cards right!!
> 
> As always, leave kudos and a comment if you enjoyed, or a comment telling me what kind of endings you’d wanna see!


	7. BEV: 1

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> in which beverly predicts some possible futures ahead of the losers, and gets a phone call that forces her into a choice.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> tw; abusive, abusive relationships, possessiveness, nightmares, deaths, major character deaths (in nightmares)

“I promise, Bill,” Stanley whispered, staring up with determined eyes to the ceiling. They didn’t change or lose their stubbornness when he dragged the glass over his wrists and began writing in blood. He died, bloody and alone, facing away from the bathroom wall that had ‘_IT_’ scrawled across it in his own blood.

Eddie was impaled in a cave, dirty and muddy in a way that his younger self would have been horrified about. The clown stood behind him, it’s mouth open in a vicious smile, it’s spider legs scuttling over the floor. He died while the rest of them fought it, bloody and alone and the bravest one there, the bravest one there.

Ben died from blood loss in Neibolt House with a carving of _COME HOME_ scrawled messily into his stomach. He didn’t look like his younger self, but his fear-filled eyes hadn’t changed at all. Choking on his last breaths, he’d rasped a poem out, three lines over and over as the life faded from him. He too died, alone and bloody while the others pushed on to find it.

Bill drowned, bloody and alone, underground.

Richie took his own life, bloody and alone, only two years later when they failed to defeat It.

Mike was shot by it through the heart, dying bloody and alone, his last words of his childhood friends.

Bloody and alone.

Bloody and alone.

Bloody and alone.

A _loser_.

And then Beverly Marsh woke up.

She lay still for a long few moments, chest heaving, head aching, as she tried to shake herself from the last remnants of the dream into reality. It wasn’t real. None of it ever was. But it felt real. By god did the dreams feel real, like she was really watching her old friends die, like she herself was really dying, without being able to do anything to stop it. She’d been having these dreams for years, over a decade, two decades, almost three, but that didn’t make it any easier. If anything, they’d gotten worse. Bloodier. Crueller. Slower.

What wouldn’t she give for the dreams to stop? Beverly could hardly remember the faces of her old friends and the subjects of her dreams, but she could _DRAW_ the paralysing fear on their expressions in the moments before they died. So many ways of dying, every night. She hadn’t had a decent night of sleep in decades, and she didn’t know how much longer she could go on, either.

She sat upright in bed, careful not to wake her husband, Tom. They’d gotten married almost five years ago, but had been in a relationship for much longer. He was angry and sometimes he hurt her and made her cry, but he loved her, and that was what mattered. An occasional slap or name didn’t really compare with the love he showed her. So while she wasn’t overly in love with him back, he’d made it quite clear she wouldn’t find love anywhere else like he could give her. And thus she stayed.

Some part of her knew Tom was lying. She had known love before him, love that was far purer and more intense than anything she’d ever felt for him. She’d felt love for the Losers Club she’d been a part of as a teen, for her best friends, for the writer of the poem she’d received age fourteen (what was his name again? Ben? Bill? The names blurred into one, and she couldn’t focus). But she wasn’t entirely sure she’d ever find such love again. Not when she’d left.

Tom was here now. He’d made it clear he wasn’t going anywhere.

Realising she probably wasn’t going to get any decent sleep again, Beverly gave up the pretence, and instead slid cautiously out of bed, ignoring the way her heart skipped a beat, then two, when Tom rolled over with a grunt in his sleep.

_Don’t wake up, please, **please**, don’t wake up..._

Luck was on her side for once, and Beverly tip-toed out the bedroom door, listening intently for any signs of her husband waking. The moonlight shone in on the living room, illuminating it in an eerie glow that suggested something was going to happen that night, for better or worse. Beverly froze in place obediently to that thought, and found her eyes fixing on her phone in the corner of the room, its glossy screen dark and unassuming.

In a heartbeat, the screen lit up with a call, and, as if drawn from a trance, or a statue carved from stone springing to life, she walked over to it slowly, picking the phone up, but not answering it straight away. Everything in her screamed to slam the phone back down again, to crawl back into bed and bury her head under the pillow and pretend like nothing was happening.

The number was unknown. That was all the more reason not to answer it, right? A call from an unfamiliar number from a different state at 4:27am in the morning. Beverly should be leaving, should be forgetting about this and going back to sleep. But still she stood, paralysed by fear, dread, and something else—

—an urge to fulfil an old promise to old friends.

Dragging her hand through her auburn hair — longer than when she’d been a child — she debated internally on what she ought to do. On one hand, she’d longed for the sense of adventure from her teenage years she’d long since lost, and answering this call would be an act of defiance against the boring normal life she’d grown to lead. But on the other... Tom hated it when she talked on the phone without his permission. She understood he couldn’t trust her: he always thought she was cheating on him, which she never would, but she understood that, she thought, however unfair. She didn’t want to make him angry. She had work tomorrow morning too, and being up so late was already detrimental to her shift that day.

What to do? It was a simple question, as yet Beverly felt thirteen again, as if she was faced with an impossible choice. Go back to bed, or answer the call? Answer the call, or not?

**If you think Bev should answer, go to ch17 [not posted].**

**If you think Bev shouldn’t answer, go to ch18 [not posted].**

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Bev’s chapter is up!! Now it’s just Stan’s introductory chapter, and then we’re all set up for Monday!! 
> 
> I have never experienced romantic abuse, or abuse like Bev has, and so if any part of my portrayal of her is inaccurate or offensive, please let me know. I’ve tried to be as informed as possible, but if it’s not, please let me know and I’ll change it as best I can! :))
> 
> Leave kudos and a comment if you’re enjoying so far!


	8. STAN: 1

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> in which stanley forgets he’s an important puzzle piece, and chooses whether or not he should take a long bath.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> tw: suicide, self harm references, self harm scars.

  
Stanley Uris was in the middle of a very important jigsaw puzzle of a bird with his wife that Friday night when the phone rang.

He’d never been very popular at school or college, and the same haunted him in his adult years, now, at forty. So instead of going to a bar or party or golfing or something, he and his wife, Patricia, sat at home. She was cooking and holding a conversation with him at the same time (she was far better at multi-tasking than he was), while he sat concentrating on his puzzle and offering vague one-word responses in return to her rambling. That was the way they spent almost all of their Friday nights, and he wouldn’t have it any other way. They weren’t very affectionate - growing up as losers and Jewish before the 2000s hadn’t been great for them - but he did love her friendship, very very much. He knew she felt the same.

Stanley was good at puzzles. He struggled with focusing on what was missing from each picture sometimes, too busy dealing with the bigger picture, but he was getting better at puzzles the more he did them. Sometimes it was better to concentrate on the bigger picture, but oftentimes, those little pieces were crucial to the finishing of the big picture, and those were the important parts that he missed. He liked puzzles of birds, specifically — they were free and beautiful and not tied down with the big or small picture. They didn’t have to think logically. They barely had to think. They just _did_.

Sometimes he was sure he thought too much. Patricia told him he did, on nights where his tears stained her night clothes and the scars over his arms stung a little more than usual. She told him he overthought and was more emotional than he believed. Stanley didn’t think he was emotional. He was logical, rational, he made sense of things. Emotions were the opposite of that. Blocking them out made him feel somewhat better, though it did make him feel like he was missing essential pieces of the puzzle.

Ducking under the table to get a puzzle piece that had fallen from the table, tongue poking out in concentration, Stanley hardly noticed when the phone went. It rang once, twice, three times, and then Patricia answered. He tuned it all out then. No doubt it was one of her friends from work. Stanley himself didn’t have many of them, unlike his wife — being an accountant was lonely, but he didn’t care about that. He didn’t.

“Stan, honey? It’s for you.”

Stanley bumped his head pulling out from under the table, curls of hair falling over his eyes in surprise. For him? He hadn’t received a call that wasn’t on his work phone in years. He paused his stopwatch: twenty seven seconds until he beat his fastest time for completing this puzzle. Frowning, dread prickling at his spine, he got to his feet gracelessly, feeling strangely out of control of his own body as he moved to take the phone from his wife.

“Hello?”

“Hey, Stanley? Stan? It’s Mike. From Derry.”

That was all Stanley needed to remember everything. That summer, the woman in the painting, It. The Losers. The Clubhouse, the Quarry, Neibolt House, oh god oh _god that fucking clown_—

Logic took over and allowed him to hold a functioning conversation with Mike while he inwardly crumbled. His mind tried to float to his safe space of birds and nests and nature, but was harnessed firmly in place by cruel clown smiles and pain and fear and his oath, why had he made that fucking oath?!

Mike wanted him to return. He wanted them all to return. Stanley wasn’t going to pretend to himself like he could, even if he told Mike he’d be there before they hung up on each other. It wasn’t possible. It was clear to him that out of the seven of them — _BillBevBenMikeEddieRichieStan_ — he was the weakest link. He would be the one to let them down. Their friendship and belief in each other had kept them safe the last time. But how could Stanley trust people he hadn’t seen in over twenty years? The clown couldn’t be back. It couldn’t be.

But he’d heard the tone in Mike’s voice. It was back. Maybe it had never truly left.

He made up his mind right there and then.

He had to be removed from the playing table.

“I’m going for a bath,” he breathed, still clutching the phone, and it seemed even Patricia noted something wasn’t right with him, as she frowned and embraced him in a hug. He returned it loosely, feeling strangely light. In a way, this made sense. Doing this made sense. Killing himself. It was as if he had always been destined for it.

“Are you feeling okay?” She asked him, and Stanley smiled faintly, feeling a little dizzy. Patricia Uris. What a marvellous woman. He couldn’t have asked for a better wife. She didn’t deserve this.

He didn’t deserve her.

“I’m okay,” he told her, and it wasn’t necessarily a lie. “I think I’ll have an early bath. I love you.”

“I love you too!” She replied brightly. “Don’t be too long, okay? Dinner will be ready soon.”

He kissed her once softly in goodbye, in thanks, in sorrow, he didn’t know what. He wasn’t sure it mattered. And with that, he began the walk upstairs to his bathroom.

This was a logical move. If he took himself off the board — like chess! — then he could not be there to hold the other Losers back. Their pact had been a blood oath, and he’d promised to have their backs. Technically, he told himself, as he locked the door behind him, that was what he was doing. His act would be saving them, and his death would fulfil his oath too. The others could do this. He knew they could.

The bath filled with warm water, devoid of bubbles, and Stanley undressed solemnly, feeling apprehension beginning to rise as he realised the severity of his actions. There was no coming back from this.

Getting in the bath itself felt like a death sentence. He felt thirteen again, afraid and alone in his father’s office. But this time It wasn’t in control. He was. This was his final act of defiance against it. This would help. Picking up the glass shard — his weapon of choice — he momentarily debated his choices in that second. He had two.

Either he left a letter, or he didn’t. On one hand, a letter would hopefully help ease some of the shock and grief his wife and friends would feel at the news of his death. It would explain his actions and the logic behind them, would show that he wasn’t running away, but rather, giving them a head start against the clown that always seemed to be one step ahead of them. But on the other hand, did he really need a letter? What could he even say? What could he tell them that they wouldn’t already know? Stanley Uris was not a coward, and he wanted people to know that — but at the same time, logically, it didn’t matter what people thought of him because he’d be dead.

The other third, more cowardly option... was that he didn’t kill himself. That he lived. That was preferable to him, of course it was, but it wasn’t feasible if he wanted his friends to live too, if he wanted to give them a chance of defeating It. He wasn’t brave enough to go to Derry... or was he? Could he go back there to his friends and his past and stop the clown that haunted him and had traumatised him so deeply? He wasn’t sure. Was that a risk he could take? It would go one of two ways: either he’d go to Derry and be brave enough to kill It with his Losers, or he’d be the weakest link and get them all killed. He wasn’t sure he could afford to take that risk.

What could he do? He didn’t have long to decide. His baths were always efficient and quick: if he lingered too long, Patricia would find him before he’d decided. That was the worst thought. Kill himself, and leave a note? Kill himself, and leave nothing? Or stay alive, and return to Derry?

  
**If Stan should do it but leave a note, go to ch18 [not posted].**

**  
If Stan should do it and not leave a note, go to ch19 [not posted].**

**  
If Stan shouldn’t kill himself, go to ch20 [not posted].**

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is it!! The final introduction chapter for my favourite boy!! Stan deserves better than this half assed chapter but it’s 1am and I’m tired lol
> 
> The chapters and choices will start coming out on Monday!! The chapter order of what chapters will be published when can be found on ch1. I hope you enjoyed this chapter, and yes, there are two options for Stan to live, and no, the options probably aren’t all you’d expect...
> 
> Remember to leave kudos and a comment if you enjoyed!!


	9. Chapter 9

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Bill chooses not to go to Derry straight away, but finds his way there eventually anyway.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> tw; brief gore, Georgie, clowns, It, and death mentions.

Of course he shouldn’t go straight away. Why the hell would he? It didn’t make any sense; he was a movie maker. To drop everything he’d worked on for the past years for a random phone call from a friend-turned-stranger that he hadn’t heard from in years was lunacy. He was too busy for this! Maybe he would head there some other day — tomorrow, next week, next year — but he certainly wasn’t rushing off for dinner so soon. No way.

His decision had nothing to do with the flicker of terror residing like an old flame in his heart at the thought of returning, nothing at all.

Shaking his head, Bill shoved the phone back into his pocket with a faint scoff, dismissing the thoughts of Derry and Mike and the Losers within a moment. He had work to do and an ending to fix. There was no time to be debating on heading back to his childhood town for a reminiscence. He had a house he could call home now, after all.

“Sorry, honey, old friend called,” he told his wife Audra as he walked back over, shoving his hands in his pockets and telling himself to forget all about the phonecall. His life was here now, with Audra, as a movie maker and book writer — he wasn’t a frightened little Derry kid any longer. “Listen, I can rewrite it, I just need—”

Even as they bickered about his endings, Bill felt something unclench in his stomach. This was so familiar to him now, so ingrained in his veins and skin and blood that he couldn’t help but release a breath he hadn’t realised he’d been holding. He couldn’t even remember why he’d gotten so worked up about the call anyway — or why he’d felt such dread when Mike had asked him to return.

Distantly, he ran his thumb across the scar on his other palm. It burned accusingly.

The day raced by in a fluorescent whirlwind of lights, camera, action, until one day turned into another, then another, until before Bill knew it, it had been almost a week since the phone call with Mike. He’d half forgotten about it, too snowed under with rewrites and directorial asks to even think about leaving work then. Audra and he had barely slept, barely communicated outside of business, and he missed speaking to her. Explaining this to her was too much effort though, and Bill was exhausted as it is. His dreams had been more chaotic than usual, with sailboats and circuses and three lights illuminating his mind, and woke him up in the hours he managed to take a quick nap.

That was why he’d been certain the little boy in the yellow raincoat was imaginary at first as he sat in boredom behind the camera. Sitting behind was very boring, particularly as a scriptwriter, when he had nothing much to do. The sleepless nights and bad dreams began to catch up to him as his head grew heavy, until he saw the boy. A familiar one, clad in too-long blue jeans and a memorable yellow raincoat. He looked to be around five or six and filled Bill with inexplicable nausea.

“Georgie,” he whispered aloud, hardly aware of himself doing so. Maybe it wasn’t spoke out at all, and just echoed around his head. He didn’t know how he knew that name until the boy lifted his head to gaze at him mischievously, and Bill knew with certainty (though he couldn’t tell how) that Georgie was his little brother. “Georgie...”

Georgie seemed to hear him, peeking up and waving at Bill happily. Despite the innocence on his face and in his wave, Bill felt a cold chill run down his spine. Something was wrong something was wrong _somethingwaSWRONG_

He stood up slowly, hardly daring to breathe. It felt like if he moved too quickly, he would scare Georgie away and he’d lose him forever again. Nobody noticed him moving cautiously away from the movie set and behind the scenes, following the figure of his little brother almost desperately. Little by little, snippets of memories returned to him: a theme park with Georgie, writing Georgie his very own book, making Georgie a boat...

By the time he reached the back rehearsal room, Bill’s eyes were wet with tears, he remembered his little brother was actually long dead, and the thing in front of him was leaving blood everywhere it stepped.

“Come home, Billy,” the thing wearing Georgie drawled, turning round to face him. Georgie’s face looked like it was crumbling apart. He ached to hug his little brother.

“What are you?” Bill demanded, or rather, it would have been a demand, if only his stutter hadn’t reappeared. The creature wearing Georgie’s face smiled back at him, but the smile was full of rotting things now. Bill couldn’t help but wonder what death the thing had caused.

“Why did you leave me Bill?” The Georgie-Thing said, mimicking Georgie’s voice. A single tear threatened to fall from Bill’s eye. He held it back. “Why did you forget about me?”

“You’re not real.” It came out as a plead rather than a statement, and the smile on Its face grew into a grin, vicious and ancient. It made Bill remember things he didn’t want to, like dark sewers and winding tunnels and stinking water and killing clowns. He understood now why Mike had capitalised the word It in his call until that minute. It was It’s name. It was what It was.

“It was real enough for Georgie.” The Thing said with a mocking pout, fake hurt slipping into its voice, and Bill recoiled sharply, fear eating away at him. He got the oddest sense of déjà vu — It had said that to him in that house on Niebolt Street, when it had been more clown and he had been much younger. It was making fun of him. “Don’t you ruh-ruh-remember, Buh-Buh-Buh-Billy?”

His stutter. It even mocked his fucking stutter. Anger, but mostly terror, swirled around his heart, and Bill was not ashamed to admit that he turned and ran with a shout of fear when It ran at him. All of a sudden he was thirteen again, and—

_Twenty seven years!_

Bill almost shouted aloud at his realisation, heart pounding sickeningly in his chest as he ran. He could hardly breathe. That was why Mike phoned. This was really why he wanted them there. It was back, and it was time to keep their Oath they’d made twenty seven years ag. To kill It for good, for everyone who had died because of It.

“Billy, come back!” It screamed along the corridor at him, dancing toward him while Bill ran for what he presumed was his life. This couldn’t be how it ended. It couldn’t be! He was only forty, for god’s sake, he couldn’t... he couldn’t die here.

“Bill!”

He almost ran smack into Audra, all in stage makeup and looking thoroughly disgruntled, but checking frantically behind him showed that It had gone. Sucking in a deep breath, Bill kissed his wife gratefully, before taking another breath, and another. He felt woozy and terrified, but he’d never been more certain of a decision in his life. This was what he had to do. He had to go back to Derry if he wanted to live his life in peace.

“I love you, but I gotta go,” he blurted out to Audra, who looked stunned.

“What, _now_? Bill, we’ve only just started—”

“I know!” He sounded desperate. He closed his eyes, and pressed a gentle kiss to her lips again, before opening them. “I know,” he continued, more subdued. “I’m sorry. I have to. I need to go home— back to Derry. I’m so sorry. Please, just trust me.”

Audra, in her credit, didn’t argue or try to convince him otherwise. She didn’t ask to go with him, or press his frantic state. Instead, she shot him a deep look, one of suspicion, that eased into tender understanding, and then she hugged him tightly.

“When will you be back?” She asked softly.

“I don’t know,” he said, just as quiet, intimate. “A week. Two. Maybe more. Hopefully just a day or two. I don’t know.”

  
  
“Be safe, Bill.”

She pulled away from him, and smiled faintly, before heading back to the filming room. Bill didn’t bother going in. Audra could explain what little she knew. He was lucky to have a wife like her.

He phoned a taxi that came in minutes, slid into the back seat, gave insertions to go to the nearest train station, and slumped back against the window, closing his eyes.

  
Bill Denbrough was heading to Derry a week later than the rest, and he couldn’t have been less eager to do so.

**Continued on Ch21 [not posted].**

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So here’s a first choice chapter out for Bill!! And here is the order of when I’ll be uploading:
> 
> Bill - Mondays  
Mike - Tuesdays  
Eddie - Wednesdays  
Ben - Thursdays  
Richie - Fridays  
Bev - Saturdays  
Stanley - Sundays
> 
> I really hope you enjoyed this chapter, the next choice chapter will be coming next Monday!! Poor Bill, he really can’t catch a break. Anyway, leave kudos and a comment, or tell me about anything you might wanna see next! Thanks for reading!!


	10. Chapter 10

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> in which mike doesn’t phone, and it makes a visit to make a deal.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> tw: insanity mention, racism implied deaths, burning alive mentions, flashbacks, exhaustion, knives.

Mike’s hand wavered on the phone for a moment. A selfish part of him wanted to do it. He wanted to bring the others back to Derry, the other Losers, he wanted them to come back and help him defeat It once and for all. They’d almost done in twenty seven years ago, after all. Why was now any different?

But then he remembered how he’d almost lost his life. How the others had almost lost theirs. He recalled how close Beverly was to being killed by the deadlights, how Stanley almost got his face ripped off by It. How could he be cruel enough to bring them back to this hellhole when they’d escaped so long ago? Yes, they were his Losers, but they were older now. Mature. They had lives outside of It and Derry — they had families, jobs, homes.

Unlike him. He just had Derry.

Rubbing his forehead tiredly, and swearing under his breath hopelessly, Mike’s hand slipped from the phone, as if a weight had transferred onto his shoulders as he did so. He felt a lot older then, but his fear made him feel like he had as a teen, too. How could he face It on his own?! They’d barely defeated it last time, let alone with the majority of his friends missing this time. There was no way. Was there?

One thing was for sure: It wasn’t going to be too pleased at this refusal to phone the Losers. The bloodied message had said _COME HOME_, after all. It wanted them all here, for whatever reason — maybe so it could kill them, maybe to watch them struggle one last time — so for them not to show was defiance of the highest kind. Mike felt fear light up his heart and chest, and he slumped back in his seat.

Fuck. He was fucked.

He didn’t dare sleep that night. Instead, he paced, up and down, up and down, a butcher’s knife clenched in his hand, jumping at the smallest noises and trying to quell his terror. The next morning, when the silvery dawn first began blooming over the horizon, Mike felt sick to his stomach. He was tired, and he wanted to sleep, but the daytime wasn’t any safer. Going out to grab breakfast at the local cafe brought blank glazed gazes, a minimal amount of children about, and smiles eerily reminiscent of the damned clown. Hurrying back as quick as he could with his heart in his mouth, Mike found himself feverishly flicking through books he’d long since memorised to find a way to get rid of It, scanning the lines in hopes of something jumping out at him.

It didn’t. By night, he could barely keep his eyes open, struggling to stay awake as he paced again. The knife was looser in his hands tonight, and he wasn’t certain he’d hit his target if he should need to. He wasn’t sure It would make it that easy, anyway.

Yawning so widely that it almost hurt, Mike sat down heavily on his bed, gritting his teeth. _Don’t fall asleep_, he told himself desperately. _Don’t fall asleep, whatever you do. It will get you if you do._

It was a childish thought — “_I can’t fall asleep because the monster under my bed will get me!_” — but this was true for him now. There was no mere nightmare or imagination to be blamed for It; only supernatural and alien forces. The monster under his bed was horribly real, and laughed at his struggles at four in the morning to scare him.

Just like it did now. Only it wasn’t under his bed, it was at his door.

Mike jerked awake, slashing at thin-air in front of him as he did so, throat closing up at the sound of the laugh. No. It couldn’t be here yet, he hadn’t read enough, he didn’t know how to kill it, It was going to kill him—

“Mike!” It sang through the door, and he could hear the fake pout of tragedy in its voice. “Won’t’cha open the door to an old friend?”

“What the hell do you want?” Mike snapped, trying hard to keep his fear under wraps. He edged closer, his grip on the knife tightening at his own words. “They’re not coming, you know,” he added, exhaustion making him bold. “I didn’t phone them. They’re safe from you.”

He thought maybe It would be angry at the news. Punish him, kill him, something. Instead, it chuckled, softly, before growing in volume and hysteria. Mike, suddenly thirteen and petrified again, shrank back. He could almost feel the bolt gun between his eyes again.

_He was fine he was fine he was **fine he was**_

“But they’ve left you all alone,” It told him with a sinister grin that Mike could sense through the door. “Just me and you, Mikey. It was supposed to be all of us.” It sighed deeply, mimicking humanity and all that it lacked, before continuing gleefully. “You broke the rules, so I’m going to punish you for being a bad boy.”

Suddenly his whole room was aflame, and the charred hands of his father and mother reaching out of the door and the window and the closet to get to him. Mike, barely aware of what he was doing, pressed himself against the wall again, eyes blown wide with terror and breathing shaky.

“This isn’t real,” he breathed, but didn’t believe himself. “This isn’t real.”

As if he’d been speaking audibly, the flames rose, higher and higher until he could almost feel them really burning his body. Huddling into the side of his bed, Mike stuck his fingers in his ears and buried his head in his knees, trying to block out the awful tragedy all around him. This wasn’t real. It wasn’t.

Hours passed. Mike wasn’t sure how he knew this. He had long since passed the point of trying to sleep. It had something to do with that, he was sure. Instead, he muttered feverishly to himself, trembling in the corner. The flames hadn’t stopped, or the screaming. Why was nobody helping them? He couldn’t tell if it was them or himself screaming at some points. It all sounded the same.

Eventually it stopped. All of it: the screaming, the banging, the fire, everything. Mike gulped in a deep breath, and then another, straightening up from his position cowering against the back wall. His parents had died all around him while he felt his sanity begin to slip away for hours, and now all he could do was breathe when it stopped. In, out. _In, out._

“Well? Did ya enjoy that?”

It. He’d forgotten about it being there. Lurching upright properly, Mike strode over to the door, banging sharply on it once. Anger and fear bubbled ominously inside him like a broth.

“What do you want?” He breathed out at last, eyes narrowing. “Why not just kill me?”

“Your fear isn’t enough.” It licked its lips audibly, and Mike pulled back in disgust. “I need their fear. All fear. Come home, I said. But you can bring them home. You _will_ bring them all home, won’t you, Mikey?”

“Like hell I will,” Mike told him contemptuously, but it was weaker than he would have liked. The consequences of refusing were obvious, but it didn’t make him flinch any less when the smell and sound of his parents’ deaths came back. Clapping hands over his ears in a futile effort to block out any noise, Mike groaned, clenching his eyes shut. “Just kill me. Leave them out of this.”

“That’s not fun for little ol’ me,” It giggled. “You’ll bring them here and betray them for me, or I can make you hear and see this again, and again, and again and again again again again—”

Mike’s head reeled. He had a chance to get out of this. He just had to turn in his friends. He couldn’t do that... could he? On one hand, they were his Losers, his best friends. They were the ones with a chance of defeating It and if he got them killed, then there would be no hope for the future. They had lives, too, and he didn’t want to betray them for It. That went against everything he’d ever wanted.

...On the other, however, they were effectively strangers now. They’d left Derry to grow up and become adults. They’d left Mike behind, hadn’t phoned, hadn’t texted, nothing. He’d sat in Derry for years, researching and planning to kill It, giving up on his dreams. Maybe he wanted all this to end. Maybe he wanted peace.

Maybe he should take the deal. Maybe he shouldn’t. What was the right answer?

**If you think Mike should take the deal, go to ch22 [not posted].**

**  
If you think Mike shouldn’t take the deal, go to ch23 [not posted].**

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Welcome to the chapter!! I’m sorry they’re slow and not the best, but I’m trying! The next two will be out tomorrow!! :)
> 
> Leave kudos and a comment if you enjoyed!


End file.
